


À droit, À gauche

by mentosmorii



Category: Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer
Genre: Angst, Boarding School, Brief Underage Drinking, Gen, Humor, Literary References & Allusions, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-01-23
Packaged: 2021-03-12 14:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28887180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mentosmorii/pseuds/mentosmorii
Summary: When Artemis attended Saint Bartleby's, there was a particularly bold student who took to ribbing Artemis, calling him Left-Foot Fowl, as "he had two left feet, and couldn't kick a football with either of them". As this incident occurred after Artemis had resolved to make an attempt to be amicable (a resolution preceded by quite a few near-death experiences), Artemis tolerated this goading for a while. He did, ultimately, buy out the offending student's family's hotel chain, but that is beside the point. A tale of teenaged awkwardness, private school politics, and, most of all, Artemis' horrendous social skills.
Comments: 70
Kudos: 64





	1. Preludio

**Author's Note:**

> I finally sat down and wrote the "left-foot fowl" fic! Hopefully this came out alright -- this fic is finished, and I thiiiink I might have a release schedule of a chapter every other day or so? Ultimately, it'll have to depend on this piece's reception tbh. Thanks as always for reading!

William Golding, known to many of students simply as 'Scruff' due to the scraggly, white beard that threatened to dominate his aged face, spent a great deal of his adult life working as a school teacher. He was not a particularly good teacher, though it must also be said that neither were his students particularly good students. Professor Golding was an English teacher, a position paralleled in its ability to strike horror into the hearts of young schoolchildren only by mathematics. The schoolboys under his tutelage were prone to the unique viciousness accessible to children who do not wish to learn, and Golding, ever the observer, provoked them. In reflecting upon his life, he described his work in scientific terms: he, the researcher, and his students, the subject —  _ Homo sapien grammar-schoolboyus _ , of the European subtype. To Golding, his classes were a microcosm of his society. Somehow, the whole of England could be shrunken down to the ages of 11-18, and then reduced in population to a dozen or so boys, and the general theme of things would still stand true. Golding was not singularly artistically minded in his notions of  _ ex ungue leonem,  _ which is how one says in Latin, "we may judge the lion from its claw". 

Others had written of schoolchild-societies long before Golding came to his own fascination with the concept. Literature asked: Britons of gentle birth, what is the quality of the cloth from which you are cut? The landed gentry chorused: better than the rest! 

L'enfant terrible of the irksome union between Social Darwinism and genre fiction, stories in which cherubic, well-behaved youngsters extolled the virtues of The British Isles were abound. However, this literary trend was not, as many are, a mere flashing fancy of the summer market. A mythos is not built in a day, after all. The existence of these books spanned nearly a century into the past before Golding had ever stepped onto his hallowed pulpit to lecture about the proper structure of a sentence. 

As both a writer and teacher, Golding was an avid reader. He had long been troubled by these written exercises in flowery-yet-didactic navel-gazing. If he'd liked his students, he might have been offended on their behalf — for the primeval, borderline bloodthirsty delights of youth to be reduced to prelapsarian flouncing about on desert islands was an insult indeed. Determined to rectify these literary misrepresentations, Golding set out to write his own treatise on the nature of man-turned-schoolboy. It was an odd little book, and to Golding's annoyance, it was rejected for publication 21 times. In the end, Golding prevailed; the book was published, thus allowing Golding to haunt grammar school children via his appearance on syllabi long after he'd retired from his teaching post. 

The book in question was  _ Lord of the Flies _ . Whether it represents the inherently base, sadistic nature of the common man is dubious. Whether it represents the nature of the moneyed private school boy, however, is less so. 

* * *

As they are sadly wont to do, summer holidays must come to end in County Wicklow. Private schools provide many luxuries to their students in an attempt to entice both child and parent alike to continue to spend exorbitant sums there each year, but like all schools, they must, ultimately, teach their students. This sounds obvious; the purpose of a school is to educate, regardless of whether said school is public or private. Private schools, particularly boarding schools, have a unique relationship to this purpose, however. Once tuition fees reach a certain crescendo, a specificity in the student body emerges. Like many of its ilk, Saint Bartleby's School for Young Gentlemen boasts a highly selective admission process. Though, rather than admission being predicted by one's results on the entrance exam, entrée to the institution correlates much more closely to the historic trends in one's family's tax statements. Put bluntly, it is a school by and for the hereditary patriciate of international high society. 

Saint Bartleby's resides in one of the valleys situated in the Wicklow Mountains. The school exists in the rare intersection between accessible and secluded, much to the delight of parents and the chagrin of pupils. The site of the school existed long before its founder had the idea to establish an elite boarding school in the Garden of Ireland— the buildings and facilities are in what used to be a monastery. In the 6th century, an ecclesial community had retreated into the mountains of Wicklow in order to devote themselves to the study of the theological and philosophical. The valley in which they'd settled seemed isolated from the touch of humanity; even under the gloom of overcast skies, there was something Edenic, something beautiful about it: the clusters of trees that grew around small boulders, their roots jutting from the soil like the living art of a woodcarver; the small bushes of berries that speckled the landscape, the pretty hues of reds, blues, and purples peeking between the leaves; the high walls created by surrounding mountains, creating a quietness in the valley that made the area feel suffused with an otherworldly quality. Surrounded by what manicured lawns could be cultivated on craggy, rocky grounds, the proud towers and halls of grey stones stretched high into the sky. Here, the reflections of the monks would be untainted by the ever-changing nature of society. Likewise, the study of Latin and mathematics of Saint Bartleby's student body was to be undisturbed by the excitement of access to the outside world. 

There is a world of difference between the disposition of a monk and the disposition of a teenager, however. All the pent up energy that would normally be released via mischief made possible by the modern world had nowhere to go. For Saint Bartleby's students, there was to be no sneaking out to smoke in car parks at night; no loitering in shops; no being allowed to sneak a can of beer with one's older brother's friends. Though renovations had been commissioned to ensure only the finest of boarding experiences for the students, the spirit of the cloister remained. As such, all that restless energy was turned inwards. In the absence of the delights of common society, the students learned to sustain themselves via the microcosm of society formed by the school; the politics of the different years, the sundry blackmail, and the related gossip became as profound to the boys as real politics. 

Of course, this meant that mini-celebrity figures would emerge. For example, there was Sebastian de Chastellier, whose father owned a hotel chain of decent cachet in Gstaad. Charismatic and intelligent enough to be genuinely interesting, he was well-liked enough that his name was familiar to those outside of his year. This was, of course, helped by the fact many of the boys desired an invitation to winter with his family at one of their hotels. 

Sebastian was sociable, though not flighty, as he regularly could be found spending time with a small group of his close friends. His professors found him to be a respectable young man, and thus spoke highly of him, though Sebastian managed this without bordering on unctuous. Upon graduating, it was expected that he would have no dearth of opportunities from which he could choose. Sebastian de Chastellier, in other words, was one of Saint Bartleby's success stories.

Just as Saint Bartleby's boasted its host of celebrities, so too did it curiously have figures who might best be described as anti-celebrities: the students who eschewed the company of their peers, yet garnered the same fascination with their lives as their counterparts of higher esteem. Among these notorious few was Artemis Fowl II. His family name alone was enough to spark the interest of staff and students alike. Yet unlike many of the boys from similar family backgrounds, Artemis was not an empty vessel for a proud family line; the title of 'Fowl' was enhanced by the fact it was he who bore it. Intelligent as a label did not suffice to describe Artemis — he was disquieting in his abilities of deduction and in the scope of his knowledge. So larger than life did he loom in the minds of all who encountered him that gossip and fact blended together, inextricable from each other, when one was asked to describe him. For someone like Artemis, it was perfectly believable that his father would one day be assassinated at sea, and the next, appear safe and healthier than ever in Helsinki. Reality seemed secondary to neatness of aesthetics and themes when taking account of his life. It didn't help his case, either, that he seemed insulted by the suggestion that his time at Saint Bartleby's might involve socializing with others his age. 

Though the lives of the two boys aforementioned may seem irreconcilably different, their paths were destined to collide the year before Artemis’ mysterious disappearance following a trip to France with his bodyguard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Preludio", the title of this chapter means "Prelude" in Italian. A prelude is defined as, "The prelude may be thought of as a preface. While, during the Baroque era, for example, it may have served as an introduction to succeeding movements of a work that were usually longer and more complex, it may also have been a stand-alone piece of work during the Romantic era. It generally features a small number of rhythmic and melodic motifs that recur through the piece. Stylistically, the prelude is improvisatory in nature. The prelude also may refer to an overture, particularly to those seen in an opera or an oratorio". 
> 
> Though I won't reveal any of the content, I will reveal the names of the coming chapters: "Chapter 2: Zögling", "Chapter 3: Bakkheia", and "Chapter 4: Pas de deux". 
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are appreciated! Hope everyone is well, and I'll see you next chapter.


	2. Zögling

The fall semester of English began as many do: uneventfully. Whereas some teachers were branded by their pupils as tyrants of pedagogy, others were valorized by their students, receiving the rare gift of admiration untainted by any hint of irony. Mr. Gibson was a professor well-known for being rather characterless; he fell outside of the aforementioned spectrum. His former students often failed to recall any details from his class that might paint their opinion of him positively or negatively. 

Mr. Gibson stood at the front of the room, fiddling with the remote that would broadcast the next slide of notes from the projector. Bored already, Sebastian struggled to get the attention of his friend, Oussama, who was seated a few desks ahead. Oussama sighed, unaware of his friend's silent torment, and he rested his chin on the palm of an extended hand. As he did so, his loose curls were jostled.

Refusing to look at his desk neighbor, Sebastian instead elected to look back at the assigned reading. The copy of _Narcissus and Goldmund_ was well-worn — he'd picked it up secondhand. As such, he didn’t feel any pangs of guilt at marking up a new book with rambling reading questions or haphazard underlines.

Next to him, Artemis Fowl II stared intently at his laptop, engrossed in his work.

"How odd," Artemis murmured to himself, furrowing his brow as he scrolled.

Sebastian resisted the urge to roll his eyes — or worse, try to peer at Artemis' screen to see what the boy had been surprised by.

"Could you try to keep it down?" Sebastian asked, voice low. 

Nonplussed, Artemis offered no reaction to Sebastian’s chastising. "If you're worried about the professor, then I assure you, he has more exciting things to tend to than a bit of whispering in the back of the classroom."

Shooting a look back at Oussama, Sebastian weighed the pros and cons of flicking a wadded-up piece of paper at his friend versus listening to Mr. Gibson's prattling and Artemis' bizarre mutterings. Ultimately, he decided against trying to get Oussama's attention; the other boy seemed engrossed in an elaborate doodle that threatened to engulf his sheet of notes.

"If you're not going to bring the book, then the least you can do is pay attention to the lecture," Sebastian chided, choosing to treat himself to the rare indulgence in churlishness.

"I've already read the book," Artemis said, costive once more. As Artemis again began to chip away at the mysterious business that seemed to constantly consume his attention, his expression bordered on a _moue_. 

At this, Sebastian did roll his eyes, displeased at having been rebuffed. This class period was simply an entry in a long list of strange encounters he'd had with Artemis; Sebastian had long ago resigned himself to accepting the odd truth that somehow, the young genius had an equal parts repellant and magnetic presence.

After careful deliberation, Sebastian had come to the following conclusion: Artemis was intriguing in the way the moon is. Of course, were one to ask Sebastian to explain this belief, he'd balk at doing so. Yet, despite being wrapped up in the intensity allowed to private musing, the comparison nonetheless rang true to Sebastian. 

His reasoning was as such.

Due to the cosmic distance, on most nights, the moon appears to barely bigger than one's thumbnail. Swallowed by its cold, stark white light, the moon's mountains high and ravines low blur; its sea of craters are reduced to mere pinpricks that render the delicate changes in the moon's coloration. However, just as one may look up at the moon and sense that the version of the moon he sees is so incomplete so as to be removed from the natural satellite altogether, so too might one look at Artemis and sense the same phenomenon occurring. The persona the boy cultivated for himself was interesting enough on its own, but there were hints here and there at the superficiality of the role he played in public. The brilliance of the full moon on a clear night hints at hidden grandeur; Artemis' genteel eccentrics hinted at inscrutable depths. 

Moreover, Sebastian had eventually come to the conclusion that Artemis did not isolate himself from his peers due to a fear of not fitting in, nor did he refuse their company due to sentiments of disdain. No, it was so much more offensive than that: Artemis' general attitude towards his peers was one of polite apathy. Sebastian had seen the way a brief flicker of delight would cross Artemis' face at the mention of certain subjects, could notice how the occasional day-dream Artemis indulged in stoked a certain level of coy amusement. Saint Bartleby's was a liminal space where Artemis was resigned to spend his days until the holidays freed him to rejoin the world. 

Why this irked him, Sebastian did not yet know.

On a whim, he cleared his throat. Although Artemis did not turn his head, his gaze did flick to meet Sebastian's.

 _This was likely the extent to which Artemis would offer up his attention_ , Sebastian decided, mulling over his next words.

"You're being uncharacteristically slack," Sebastian said at last, and the lines around Artemis' eyes deepened.

"Hm?"

Sebastian held up his book. "You don't even have the assigned reading with you, Fowl, come on."

Faintly bemused, Artemis finally glanced at Sebastian. "I believe that I just explained that I had already read the book."

Sebastian shrugged, uncharitable. "Well, we're reading it now."

"I remember it well enough," Artemis replied coolly.

"Oh, the whole 'genius' thing, right?" Sebastian surmised, tone laced with insincerity. 

Artemis raised an eyebrow. "'I believe that art is more than salvaging something mortal from death and transforming it into stone, wood, and color, so that it lasts a little longer',” he quoted, and Sebastian huffed, despite himself.

Somewhat brusquely, Sebastian leafed through his book. Ruminating on a few of the different sections, he eventually settled on his own quote.

“'Natures of your kind, with strong, delicate senses, the soul-oriented," Sebastian rejoined, purposefully dropping from the quotation some of the original contents. "You take your being from your mothers. Your home is the earth; ours is the world of ideas. You are in danger of drowning in the world of the senses; ours is the danger of suffocating in an airless void. You are an artist; I am a thinker'.”

Artemis paused. "Artfully done, Sebastian. If only Hesse could have made you his editor. Alas, born too late. Now, how about the following: 'an intelligent child need not be less intelligent than a learned scholar. But when the child wants to assert its opinion in matters of learning, then the scholar doesn't take it seriously'.”

Exasperated, Sebastian flipped back and forth between the pages, scanning his notes rather than responding to the accusation of cherry-picking. Finally, he came to a suitable passage, and, triumphant, he jabbed a finger at the series of lines.

"You learned men are arrogant, you always think everybody else stupid,” he quoted, internally preening at the quick find.

Artemis smirked. "'Generally speaking," he drawled, keeping the volume of his voice low, "it is inhumane to detain a fleeting insight'."

Sebastian blinked, surprised. "Er," he began. "That does not sound like Hesse."

Archly, Artemis widened his grin by a few teeth. "It's not," he clarified. "It's Lebowitz — Fran Lebowitz, to be specific."

"What?" Sebastian boggled. His voice rose in volume slightly due to his annoyance, and Mr. Gibson shot him and Artemis a warning look.

Admonished, Sebastian pretended to be looking over his notes.

"The most entertaining games are one whose rules are more so a suggestion than they are doctrine," Artemis advised, sotto voce.

His pride smarting, Sebastian refused to acknowledge Artemis' remark. Returning now to his reading, Sebastian's eyes traced the final line that he'd highlighted.

_“Goldmund's last words burned like fire in his heart.”_

Petulant, Sebastian crossed out the passage, scribbling over it until it was unreadable.

* * *

Later that evening, the students of Saint Bartleby's returned to their dorms. In the building erected by the cloister and courtyard, Sebastian and Oussama retired. The first day back from the summer holidays had been tedious, and after the 6:00 p.m. church-bells rang, signaling the end of the school day, they'd both hurried to escape to the safety of their dorms.

Oussama was sprawled over Sebastian's bed, idly flicking through an issue of a magazine he'd asked one of his friends from home to mail him. Sebastian didn't care enough to ask what the magazine was about, though he could guess from the cover that the subject matter was either a rock band or an exposé on the most unpleasant Viking funeral rites. As upperclassmen, they were given preference in the allocation of single dorms. They'd both readily applied, though more so to deprive the underclassmen of the resource than out of a genuine desire for solitude. _Rooming with some bloke who you absolutely hate is a rite of passage,_ Oussama had argued when they'd talked about the matter the previous summer. The fact that their friend group tended to congregate in one another's dorms more often than not was beside the point. 

"Why are you going over Leaving Cert stuff?" Oussama asked, flipping to the next page of his magazine. 

"My mum is still pissed about my Mock Exam results," Sebastian explained idly, twirling his pencil between his fingers as his eyes glazed over his textbook. "Besides, there's nothing better to do."

Oussama made a noncommittal noise. "Fair."

Sebastian sighed, turning away from his desk to look properly at Oussama. "They put Fowl in our English class this year."

Oussama raised an eyebrow, shooting Sebastian a look. "That's annoying."

"'Annoying'?" Sebastian parroted, disbelieving. "'Annoying'? That's all you have to say about it?"

Oussama gestured to the page he was on. "I'm reading, Seb."

"Sorry for interrupting," Sebastian groused, turning back to his coursework.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Zögling' is German for 'student/boarder', but it's veryyy outdated, and is overly formal/aristocratic in a way where its modern use would largely be ironic or humorous. 
> 
> Also, summary of N&D from Goodreads: "Narcissus and Goldmund tells the story of two medieval men whose characters are diametrically opposite: Narcissus, an ascetic monk firm in his religious commitment, and Goldmund, a romantic youth hungry for knowledge and worldly experience. First published in 1930, Hesse's novel remains a moving and pointed exploration of the conflict between the life of the spirit and the life of the flesh."
> 
> The full quote that Sebastian cherry-picked from is as follows: “Natures of your kind, with strong, delicate senses, the soul-oriented, the dreamers, poets, lovers are almost always superior to us creatures of the mind. You take your being from your mothers. You live fully; you were endowed with the strength of love, the ability to feel. Whereas we creatures of reason, we don't live fully; we live in an arid land, even though we often seem to guide and rule you. Yours is the plenitude of life, the sap of the fruit, the garden of passion, the beautiful landscape of art. Your home is the earth; ours is the world of ideas. You are in danger of drowning in the world of the senses; ours is the danger of suffocating in an airless void. You are an artist; I am a thinker. ”
> 
> It is meant to emphasize how these characters are each other's opposites, but Sebastian warped it so as to call Artemis childish and overly pretentious + affected.


	3. Bakkheia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter in which underage drinking is depicted, just as a heads up!

Parties, if one could even call them that, were a tedious affair at Saint Bartleby's. 

Normally, alliances form between under- and upperclassmen. The upperclassmen provide parties with liquor. Conversely, the underclassmen comprise a class of partygoers who will raucously laugh at even the most tedious attempts at humor by the hosts, as well courteously dance to the ill-selected music on the night's playlist. Saint Bartleby's remote location hindered the spontaneous formation of these kinds of social economies, however — there were no corner stores to which the older students could steal away under the guise of a snack run. Drinks had to be bought in advance and smuggled into the school at the end of each holiday break; these few cans of beer and spirits were rationed with the delicacy of a feudal lord allocating grain stores to his people before a harsh winter. To be invited to a clandestine soirée was a mark of high social standing indeed, and to throw the party itself was even more so. Sebastian occupied the role of indebted attendee, skilled as he was at appearing simultaneously blasé and fawning. The chain of logic with which he justified coming to these parties was winding and labyrinthine: he needed to be entertaining to be a sufficiently agreeable guest; he needed to be a guest to occupy his rung on the social ladder; etcetera, etcetera, etcetera. 

As Sebastian took another sip of his drink, he couldn’t fight the sinking feeling that there were more productive things one could do with his night than swanning about one of the Sunday School classrooms, humoring his classmates who believed themselves to be the unearthers of an indie band that, save for their efforts, would have been lost to the sands of time: Radiohead. 

_ "I’m not living," _ Thom Yorke crooned softly through some fourth year's USB speaker.  _ "I’m just killing time." _

As a young man born with the blessing of keen logical skills, Sebastian idly weighed the costs of dumping his drink over the offending student's phone.

He settled on taking another swig from his can. Surveying the room, Sebastian let his gaze wander. The classroom had been renovated some years back. Spaces intended for the younger students always had a more modern look about them — perhaps so as to soften the transition from their lives at home to their new world at Saint Bartleby's. Unlike the geometrically-patterned stone tiles or pitch-pine flooring of the upper-level classrooms, the Sunday School had been redone with white-and-tan Berber carpeting; the low, compact loops of the rug's fabric made sure to absorb what moisture it could from the air, imbuing the room with a constant musty smell. Among the diminutive furniture designed for students much younger than they were, the partygoers seemed even more like they were too big in size and number to fit inside the classroom.

In his drunken state, Sebastian was sure that the half-hearted ‘goodnight’s that tumbled from his lips were capable of convincing only those as buzzed as he.  _ Better a lightweight than a wallflower _ , he reasoned, slowly weaving his way through the crowd of his classmates, dodging attempts at enticing him back into conversation as he moved towards the door. 

The air in the hallway was not much better than that inside the party. Sebastian dutifully closed the door behind him as he stepped outside, the distant flickering of satisfaction bubbling up in him at having remembered the need to do so. With the thick oak door shut behind him, the sound of chatter and music dulled somewhat, allowing him to regain his bearings. 

The first thing that struck him was how dark it was in the hall. The deep grey of the stone floors and walls seemed to exacerbate the gloom. The only light came from the series of tall glass windows — windows whose continuity was disrupted by the iron bars installed in front of them. As the moonlight poured into the hall, it formed horizontal lines of silvery luster, and suspended in that light, millions of dust particles seemed to hang, still. 

Sebastian let his surroundings envelop him. His brain felt like it was cradled in his skull by thick tufts of wool rather than cerebral fluid. There seemed to be a barrier between him, the experience, and his understanding of it all. On his tongue, unknown words sat, ready to spill forth once the dam that kept them back splintered. From the bottom of his feet to the tip of his head, a growing emotion swelled — some unknown emotion that was more an intensity, a desire to bloom and envelop Sebastian, its host, than it was happiness or sadness. Urgency and frustration co-mingled during the brief moments in which a stumble or a swaying pulled him from this trance-like state. 

Just as soon as this strange feeling had possessed him, it was gone. Whatever discovery Sebastian had teetered towards had slipped away into the night, leaving him alone in the hallway. Had his thoughts been less scrambled, perhaps he would have lingered on this. However, a question that held infinitely more intrigue was that posed by the sliver of light coming from under the classroom door adjacent to the party.

His brain whirred, mulling over the implications.

_ What was next to the Sunday School classroom? _ Sebastian wondered, cautious yet curious.

The door had to lead to one of the adjoining classrooms. Still, the question of what the room  _ was _ fell secondary to  _ who _ was in it, and  _ why _ . Under more social conditions, bolstered by the high spirits roused by belonging to a group, perhaps Sebastian would have entertained the notion that the occupant was spying on their party. He was not surrounded by his friends, however.

Impulsive, Sebastian reached for the door. The knob turned easily, and just like that, the door was swinging open, leaving Sebastian almost dismayed at having not encountered resistance. As the hallway was as dark as, if not darker than, the interior of the room, he did not have to wait for his eyes to adjust in order to take in the scene before him. Even so, it took a moment for his mind to process that which lay before him.

Sebastian gawped at Artemis. "What're..." he slurred, tongue tripping through the words.

Artemis looked up from his laptop. He seemed mildly offended at having been interrupted, as though his peers should have anticipated him coming down to the abandoned classrooms to work.

"Do you mind?" Artemis asked.

Sebastian stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. The noises of the party next door were muffled, though still audible. If a teacher were to be patrolling the halls, it was likely that the gathering would be discovered, Sebastian realized. He glanced back at Artemis, who was watching him shrewdly. 

"I realize now that I was not clear enough, considering your inebriated state: I'm asking that you leave," Artemis stated bluntly, though his tone carried in it no hint of animosity.

Sebastian ignored him, electing to lean against the cool, stone wall near the door. Faintly, he could feel the vibration of the chatter and the music through the wall. Inhaling shakily, he slid to the ground. He reached in his blazer pocket, brightening when his fingers brushed against the pack of cigarettes that he'd smuggled into school. He pulled one out and continued rummaging around for his lighter. It did not take long for him to come to the conclusion that he'd left the device back in his dorm, and he looked up, frowning.

"Do you have a light?" Sebastian asked, forcing his eyes to focus as he met Artemis' gaze.

Artemis’ upper lip curled in disgust. "I'm not a smoker."

Sebastian snorted. "'Course you’re not."

Artemis did not rise to Sebastian's attempt at baiting him, electing instead to return to his work. Though one of the overhead lights had been turned on, the light it cast was dull, and the room was dominated by shadow. The blue light of Artemis' computer illuminated his face, making his features look all the more severe. The odd scene reminded Sebastian of tenebroso art; the surroundings of Artemis melted into shades of black, whereas he, pale as ever, played against the darkness in a way that was cadaverous. It took Sebastian a moment to settle on the mood of the situation, but, curiously, fear did not number among his emotions. The tableau before him was intense, as were all things when Artemis was involved, but the intensity did not imbue Artemis with a sinister air. The word floating pointedly about Sebastian's skull was, 'gothic'. Lushly moody and having a vaguely charnel aura even in the daylight, Artemis defied understanding in a way that was wholly unfamiliar to his sheltered teenaged peers; thus, it was no wonder that when underclassmen (and upperclassmen, for the matter) were asked to describe the boy, it was common to receive a paltry response of, 'scary'. Up close and in the dark, though, such labels become apparent as embarrassingly inadequate. 

Noticing Sebastian's staring, Artemis paused in his typing, though he did not look up from his screen.

Sebastian cleared his throat, awkward.

"I'm going to leave in a moment," he explained, the room suddenly too small. "I just need to sober up."

With that, Artemis continued in his typing, unamused by Sebastian's rambling. An intense wave of indignation hit Sebastian, and his face warmed. Artemis' snubbing rankled Sebastian, this was understandable, but the sentiment of shame that intermingled with the frustration was unexpected, which only exacerbated the two emotions.

"What're you doing here?" asked Sebastian, accusatory. 

"I'm working," Artemis countered.

Sebastian resisted the urge to gnash his teeth. "What're you working  _ on?" _

Artemis gave him a deadpan expression, the glow of his computer making it so the shadows cast by his eyelashes gave the space below his eyes an abstract, expressionist quality.

"I'm just trying to be friendly," Sebastian tried, the residual buzz of the alcohol making it even more difficult to navigate the situation. "Prick."

"It's getting late," Artemis emphasized, not feigning concern so much as indicating Sebastian's welcome had long been overstayed.

"So it is," Sebastian simpered, sarcastic. "Whatever shall we do?"

_ I hate you _ , a petulant voice within him whispered.  _ I hate you, Artemis — do you know that?  _

The only sign of these febrile stirrings was the slight tensing of his jaw.

In the dark, the dark blues of Artemis' irises glittered like stones at the bottom of a stream. 

"My, aren't you unpleasant?" Artemis commented idly, his tone inscrutable. "I wonder if our classmates are aware of this side of you."

Snorting, Sebastian broke eye contact.

Artemis quirked his head slightly, and his tapered fingers curled, one by one, around the edge of his laptop's cover, slowly lowering it. 

"I'm almost flattered," he continued. "I've never been someone who has decided that I’m unworthy of pretenses and illusions. This experience — your behavior towards me, that is — has been illuminating."

Though the tendrils of the alcohol's influence still wrapped themselves around his senses, Sebastian could comprehend the subtext. For the first time, he held Artemis' attention — no, his interest, in fact. In the tiny classroom, Sebastian was keenly aware of the wall against which his back was currently pressed. Artemis was diminutive for his age, giving off the Peter Pan-like impression that he would always be a child prodigy, at least in build. Despite this, there was an immediacy to the discomfort that coiled around Sebastian's gut, as though there somehow  _ was _ the threat of real, physical danger. Artemis did not find him interesting in the way one does an equal. Sebastian had become intriguing in the same way a mouse that gets a little too bold in creeping about the kitchen becomes of interest to the cat.

Due to the lowering of his computer, the light was too dim to make out the semaphore of Artemis’ facial features. 

"I'm not—" Sebastian fumbled, mouth dry. Self-conscious in every sense of the term, he hesitated to wet his lips, or make any other movement that might reveal something. 

"I don't pretend to be nice," he finished feebly. "I— people like me because I  _ am _ nice, okay? It's not all politics, or whatever."

"You  _ are _ very nice, Sebastian," Artemis agreed, genteel.

"Thanks," Sebastian responded, only slightly too quick in his reply.

"Yet not to me," Artemis pointed out, delight now openly oozing from his words.

They fell into a silence, the atmosphere in the room heavy.

Gently, Artemis set his computer aside. Despite himself, Sebastian flinched. However, if Artemis had noticed this show of weakness, he gave no sign of it.

As though he was about to share a secret, Artemis leaned forward, resting his weight on an outstretched hand as he twisted in his seated position.

Artemis lowered his voice to a whisper. "It would behoove you to be a little more politically minded, Mr. de Chastellier."

Having said his piece, Artemis leaned away.

Wordlessly, Sebastian rose. He opened his mouth as if to say something, and Artemis looked up at him from the ground, expectant. 

Turning away, Sebastian opened the door to the classroom. He slammed it behind him for good measure, heart pounding from a cocktail of anger and peculiar humiliation. Shoving his hands in his slacks, he looked around the dark hallway, trying to get his bearings. For a moment, he considered going back to the party, or perhaps even opening the door behind him back up so as to yell a final curse or two at Artemis.

Breathing shakily, he shot a glance at the windows. The presence of the iron bars suddenly annoyed him; he wished he could have admired the night sky and the grounds of the school without those bars breaking up the tableau. However, the feeling soon began to ebb, and, his heart rate slowing, Sebastian was stricken by the lateness of the hour.

Though it felt like admitting defeat, he slowly meandered down the hall, thinking distantly of how this year, he wouldn't have to worry about waking Oussama when sneaking back into the dorm room. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Bakkheia", a.k.a. the transliteration of Βακχεια, which is the Bacchanalia.
> 
> Again, I'm lazy, so I'll simply paste from wiki: "The Bacchanalia were Roman festivals of Bacchus, the Greco-Roman god of wine, freedom, intoxication and ecstasy. They were based on the Greek Dionysia and the Dionysian mysteries, and probably arrived in Rome c. 200 BC via the Greek colonies in southern Italy, and from Etruria, Rome's northern neighbour. Tenney Frank suggested that the Dionysian worship may have been introduced to Rome by prisoners taken by the Romans when the former Greek city of Tarentum in southern Italy was captured from the Carthaginians in 209 BC.[4] Like all mystery cults, the Bacchanalia were held in strict privacy, and initiates were bound to secrecy; what little is known of the cult and its rites derives from Greek and Roman literature, plays, statuary and paintings"
> 
> Thanks again for reading!
> 
> Also, apologies to any Thom Yorke fans; the Yorke and I simply do not vibe. However, as a purveyor of other late 80s/early 90s pretentious bands, however, I support those who *do* vibe with the Yorke.


	4. Pas de deux

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a·droit | əˈdroit |  
>  _adjective_  
>  clever or skillful in using the hands or mind: he was adroit at tax avoidance.  
>  _ORIGIN_  
>  mid 17th century: from French, from à droit ‘according to right, properly’.
> 
> oo000oo
> 
> gauche | ɡōSH |  
>  _adjective_  
>  lacking ease or grace; unsophisticated and socially awkward: a shy and gauche teenager.  
>  _ORIGIN_  
>  mid 18th century: French, literally ‘left’.

As far as epithets go, "Left-Foot Fowl" was not a particularly clever one. The jab at Artemis' athleticism bordered on embarrassing in that it revealed a lack of understanding of what Artemis valued. "Left-Foot Fowl" was as an incisive of a remark as calling Einstein "Four-Eyes Albert" due to his use of reading glasses. When Sebastian had explained to Oussama that, "Artemis ought to have been called Left-Foot Fowl, as he had two left feet and couldn’t kick a football with either of them", Oussama had winced. Not only was the insult a carnivalesque affectation of schoolyard bullying, but its intended victim was a student who'd not suffer foolishness lightly. As only a friend can, Oussama had gently informed Sebastian that he was behaving like an idiot. This immaturity had to cease, for Sebastian's sake — and, indeed, Oussama's as well, as Oussama could be damned via their close association.

Sebastian did not heed this advice.

Sebastian continued to refer to Artemis with this new nickname at every opportunity he had, save, of course, for when he was face-to-face with the other boy. The students at Saint Bartleby's held little affection in their hearts for Artemis; when Sebastian joked about "Left-Foot Fowl", he regularly received appreciative chuckles, as though he was voicing some unspoken truth they, too, longed to admit. Despite behaving in ways that belied this, Sebastian was an astute individual: he was acutely aware that despite the laughs he received, the other students never joined in openly joking about Artemis. They were game enough to encourage Sebastian to snidely recount this or that irreverent tale of Artemis' behavior in class, but everyone involved in this strange gossiping made sure not to lose their plausible deniability at having partaken. In briefly inhabiting the role of an after-class clown, Sebastian discovered whose friendliness towards him was genuine; those who considered Sebastian a friend would privately advise him similarly to Oussama, whereas those who did not would egg him on, elbowing one another knowingly at each audacious joke that tumbled from Sebastian's lips.  _ These fair-weather friends knew they had entertainment to gain both ways, _ Sebastian had realized. They had the opportunity to laugh with Sebastian now, and once Artemis found out about the "Left-Foot Fowl" business, they'd have their opportunity to laugh at Sebastian.

Once more, Artemis was seated next to him in English, typing intently. 

Maddeningly, Artemis had not yet acknowledged their encounter that night of the party. Sebastian had not brought the interaction up either, nor had he revealed it to anyone else. The memory of the night was so surreal, so dreamlike, that Sebastian could have doubtlessly woven it into a yarn of epic proportions.

"Did you know that even though he avoids us  _ peasants," _ Sebastian would have said, putting on a haughty affectation, "Left-Foot Fowl was lurking outside the party Edmund threw last week? I found him sitting in a nearby closet,  _ pretending _ to send emails."

Sebastian could imagine the raucous laughter that would result.

Despite this, or rather, because of this, Sebastian had not breathed a whisper of his drunken discovery. He could not yet decipher the roiling tangle of emotions that clouded the night. Further, there seemed to be something... almost delicate about the memory, and Sebastian was loath to taint it by mining it for laughs.

Moody, Sebastian etched looping patterns along the borders of the book he had open. The class had finished  _ Narcissus and Goldmund _ , and they'd moved on to their next read (much to the dismay of some of the slower readers):  _ Moby Dick _ .

Sebastian shot Artemis a glance.

"I assume you've memorized this beast of a book as well," Sebastian said, the remark somehow coming out resigned.

Artemis didn't miss a beat. "How well you know me, Mr. de Chastellier."

Whereas the emphasis of a family name may have sounded obsequious coming from anyone else, Artemis maintained the vaguely bored attitude he had towards all things school-related.

"Prove it, then," Sebastian challenged. "You may have had a few Hesse lines memorized, but what about Melville?"

The bridge of Artemis' nose wrinkled. "I was not aware that I was burdened with the task of staving away the lashes of boredom that might assail you during Gibson’s lecturing. An amanuensis of your flights of comedic fancy — very presumptuous."

"Verbal peacocking will get you nowhere."

"Your largesse in doling out unsolicited pearls of wisdom will have to support me if my vocabulary fails me, then."

_ “All my means are sane, my motive and my object mad,”  _ Melville's words echoed in Sebastian's skull, unbidden. 

Instead, Sebastian quoted: "'There is no folly of the beasts of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men'.”

"'Ah Bartleby! Ah humanity!'" Artemis commented airily, the quotation taking on, as all things did, a bitingly sardonic note when delivered from his mouth instead of an author's earnest pen. 

Sebastian found himself floundering for words.

"'A Story of Wall Street'," Artemis explained, continuing his work as he spoke. "One of Melville's lesser-known works."

Sebastian wondered what would happen if he called Artemis "Left-Foot Fowl" to his face, right then.

He opened his mouth.

"Mr. de Chastellier," Mr. Gibson called out, his reedy voice rising just barely over the sea of students whispering to one another. "What significance does Ahab's artificial leg have for the novel? Quickly, please."

"The pain associated with it is symbolic of his obsession with the whale," Sebastian replied quickly. Satisfied, the professor turned back to the front of the class, intent to mark down what Sebastian had said by typing it on the digital tablet that was connected to the projector. How successful he would be in this endeavor remained to be seen.

Sighing quietly, Sebastian returned to his doodling.

He would reveal the "Left-Foot Fowl" joke to Artemis soon enough. Furtively, he glanced over at Artemis, who had returned to his earlier typing. Yes, Sebastian decided, now was not the right time. The reveal had to be properly set up; the atmosphere of muttering the nickname during an English class was all wrong.

He just had to wait. Soon... Sebastian frowned. Well, he wasn't sure exactly what the ribbing would accomplish. But the idea behind it was grand, and he was sure Oussama would see soon that he'd been fretting over nothing. 

And perhaps during winter break, he'd tell the party story to Oussama after sightseeing in Gstaad. 

Pleased with himself, Sebastian drew a smiley face next to the margins of his notes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Pas de deux' is French, and it describes a dance or figure for two performers (with 'pas' meaning a step in ballet, so the literal translation would be 'steps for/shared by two').
> 
> And *drumroll* the title! In French, when saying 'to the right', one says 'à droite' NOT 'à droit'. Hence, the title refers to 'à droit ‘, as in to do something properly/the correct way, whereas 'à gauche' would be borrowing from the second meaning of gauche, which means 'to do something incorrectly'. As Artemis' nickname uses 'left' in a similar manner (as being 'left-footed' indicates that he is clumsy). Nat, a.k.a [Aculos](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aculos/pseuds/Aculos) pointed out that:
>
>> PS. It's pretty interesting how left foot is also used as a derogatory term for Irish Roman Catholics.  
> 
> 
> So again, the use of 'left' to signify that one is somehow doing something incorrectly/somehow *is* wrong is invoked.
> 
> Based on the perception of the peers versus their behavior in this fic, it is possible to interpret either Artemis or Sebastian as being the 'à droit' person or the 'à gauche' person. It all depends on perspective!
> 
> As always, thanks for reading, and if you liked the fic, I always appreciate a kudos or comment!
> 
> \--  
>  _(pasting a response I left to a comment here)_  
>  you are not mistaken -- Sebastian definitely is nursing a not-so-secret crush (though whether he's aware of the fact it's a crush is meant to be ambiguous), and the "Left-Foot Fowl" business is the sublimation of his teenage infatuation into like, school-yard teasing/name-calling. I mean, his name was partially influenced by Saint Sebastian, an early Christian saint/martyr who has become somewhat of a figure of fascination/a popular symbol for the lgbtq+ community; Saint Sebastian can be referenced or invoked in art or literature to imply repressed/open gayness and gay identity.
> 
> But to circle back, Sebastian is someone who has not yet reckoned with his own identity, and there's this sense that everything has hidden, terrifying significance to him — he doesn't yet understand himself, and he fears that the way the world around him interacts with him + his own reactions to his environment might somehow betray who he really is before he is able to discover that for himself (and thus hide his cards closer to his chest with the power that knowledge would give him). The banter during English was meant to underline this. The first book is Narcissus and Goldmund; the story focuses on Narcissus, the aloof monk, and Goldmund, the reckless, lover of life. While Goldmund traipses around Medieval Germany for his adult life, he finally returns to the monastery where he met Narcissus. When Goldmund is on his deathbed, the following scene transpires:
>
>> And now the sick man opened his eyes again and looked for a long while into his friend's face. He said farewell with his eyes... Those last two days Narcissus sat by his bed day and night, watching his life ebb away. Goldmund's last words burned like fire in his heart.
> 
> There is the sense that for Narcissus, Goldmund was the great love of his love — though it can be debated whether Goldmund loved him in the same manner. Of course, they are meant symbolically to be two halves of the same soul, with Narcissus = night, restraint, the life of the scholar, and Goldmund = day, exuberance, excess, and the life of the poet/lover; though there is, I think, a layer of romance in them being part of the same whole.  
> Similarly, the reference to Moby Dick encapsulate the unrealized affections of Sebastian. In chapter 10 of Moby Dick, Ishmael (the main character) has the following interaction with Queequeg (one of the first characters Ishmael meets + his shipmate)
>
>> "If there yet lurked any ice of indifference towards me in the Pagan's breast, this pleasant, genial smoke we had, soon thawed it out, and left us cronies. He seemed to take to me quite as naturally and unbiddenly as I to him; and when our smoke was over, he pressed his forehead against mine, clasped me round the waist, and said that henceforth we were married; meaning, in his country's phrase, that we were bosom friends; he would gladly die for me, if need should be."
> 
> Melville himself very well may have been gay, if his letters to Nathaniel Hawthorne are suggestive of anything -- though this affection was not reciprocated, most likely (which connects to Sebastian's own feelings).  
> (For both Hesse and Melville, a massive content warning comes regarding their cultural chauvinism + ignorant descriptions of non-white characters. Also, a fair amount of androcentrism, tbh.) 


End file.
